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Above [original PG:15+]

This was originally going to be a one-shot, but I decided to turn this into a short story...which isn't so short now that I've decided to tackle this with my NaNoWriMo project. Good news is, this might actually get finished o:

Slow reading is advised.

A narration may be provided later for people with dyslexia.

Rated PG:15+ for mentioned drug use, violence, blood and gore and mature sexual themes that I don't feel like detailing about (it's for the better).

The wind picked up, and he shivered, bringing his legs up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them.

It wasn’t until a few hours later that he fell asleep, his tucked body resting uncomfortably on the ornate, rusted metal armrest.

It must’ve been difficult, I thought. The wind frequently brought a few drops of autumn shower and he was far from protected from the cold. Silk, it must’ve been. He won’t survive for long.

There wasn’t anyone else to entertain my presence. Sometimes, I would count the cars that came and went underneath me. A convenience, perhaps, was that I could tell the exact time as humans followed by counting the cars.

I don’t know what else there would’ve been to this. Few passed without stopping by, and fewer acknowledged the old metal bench (which had been around for a while now) that sat in my shadow. The ones who had were the exceptions I witnessed. They were the humans that gave meaning to my assumptions.

It wasn’t hard to psychoanalyse them. The fading bench, already rusting in splashed blotches was evidence of quite a melancholy existence.

I had seen them all unfold since its fixture.

I remember them all.

For the sake of all things sad that may have resulted, I might have shed a tear.

If I could, I may have contributed my own splash of rust.

He is another one. To my thirst, they dripped, through the gaps of the skeletal bench, giving some false resurrection to the autumn harvest of leaves.

I wonder, somehow. It is such a human thing to do, but I wonder.

And I also brood.

Maybe I shouldn’t, especially for a human.

I wonder again, but perhaps, the brooding lingers. It strains me, so I stop.

I proceed to count cars again, but they had all left, leaving him quite alone and abandoned.

When I realise that I was brooding again, I stop.

I attend to the birds, as I would do when my mind rests, but the majority had gone off for the colder months.

Perhaps there is a lot more to existing. Humans see me as a symbolic denizen of age-old wisdom, yet there are rarely times when I ponder. Pondering is not a thing I’m supposed to do often. They sometimes reject me for doing it, but what harm could befall one who ponders? I don’t know, but I don’t have much of a circle of acquaintances and my mind feels like breaking whenever I ponder too hard or too long.

Perhaps it is counterproductive for me to think. It is not of our nature to think, and I may needlessly adapt myself for its demands. Thinking does me no good, for my movements are limited. Humans think to act. We cannot act and therefore, thinking is meaningless to us.

It hurts when I think about it, so I settle down a little, before I realise that the pain had derived from thinking too much.

A car passes beneath, recklessly.

I cringe at its trail as I sense it rising like a soul into the cosmos, tainting it.

It has become an adaptation that I’m subjected to toxic mist every day from dawn to dusk, but it feels so much easier to criticise this gasp of trail when it feels so alone, so injured as it is ripped apart by the cold air.

And I can’t help but think of him.

He sleeps beneath me in a suspended, emotionless state. Only when he sleeps, that his humanly anguish is washed away; an empty, cold memory in its wake remaining as he awakens.

I really do wonder, and brood, for the morning when he awakens.

He exhales an aromatic mist that dissipates as it is torn apart by the cool air – just like the trail of that car. I catch only fibres of it, but each strand tells so much a serene tale that I become curious to know more. An animal’s gasp contains much more than salivary mist; it is the breath of a living soul – an essence from the miracle of life itself.

Yet, I cannot grasp anything real from my harvest.

His is much more than a shattered breath.

It is the essence of some forlorn emotion, an essence that I have no ability to comprehend to the fullest.

I am clouded by an instinct to neglect it, and by another to dismiss it as merely warm air.

I would need to rebel against nature, if I were to intrude further, but my curiosity seems to see no problem in me doing so.

This has become excruciating, almost a suffering.

I am at a loss.

I don’t know what to do.

It is uncomfortable, but my disposition does not allow me any remedy.

I need to rest.

I need…sleep.

But I didn’t know how to sleep. It is an animalistic tendency to sleep, something that I lack within my anatomy.

Creaking my branching arms, the soul within my body stretched, dislodging the moulds that had settled in during my inactivity. It never really did much in a physical sense, but it did stop my mind from growing stale.

The air was crisp. Autumn had surely arrived and my various friends would be leaving for the next few months. Usually, I would feel lonely at this annual departure, but somehow, it was overshadowed by another feeling – an invigoration.

I knew what it was; it was the morning breeze that came along from the nearby harbour.

But it had never had so much as an effect on me as a normal breeze.

There was something special to waking up to this morning’s breeze. Was it the subtle aroma of salt spray, with the air crisply tickling my sensitive skin? Was it the gentlest of rustlings in contrast to my impressive demeanour?

All these seemed like human indulgences and ideals...and suddenly, I had the urge to banish these thoughts.

I was already on a collision course. Surely the urge and actual ability to fall asleep must’ve already fired up the warning...

I had to return to being me.

The transition would be a hard one. I had totally forgotten my purposes for the autumn, and in the scurrying effort to remember them, it had dawned on me.

I had no purpose.

I wasn’t supposed to have a purpose.

If one could call that a purpose, to exist was an automatic tendency already embedded into my subconscious mind.

It was frightful, the thought. Already, the horror of falling to sleep and waking up from it was vastly undermining the indulgences.

At the same time, another, equally frightful, had hit me.

They were both conflicting and I couldn’t bear them.

I tried to analyse them systematically, and eventually, I was left with these two core ideas:

1. I had adopted, or am adopting, human ideals and psyches.

2. I had come to the realisation that I had always served no purpose.

In my conclusion, I had also come to a converging point:

3. Using my human ideals, I had become shocked to hear that I served no purpose and never will serve any purpose.

But the thoughts kept on coming.

4. I am now currently at a loss. If I continue to be who I am, I will be immensely troubled by this revelation and I may become unhealthy as a result. On the contrary, if I go on with these human ideals, I will become somewhat happy and satisfied, but I will reject my identity, consequently causing others of my kind to shun me.

It had now become a terrible morning. As comforting the breeze was, there was little it could do to settle my inner conflict.

It tore me apart and I was in dire need of additional sleep, which mustn’t have been a good thing considering I had just woken up.

I was meaning to persist, but I did not know how.

For now, I was to continue on as if it was a normal autumn day.

For a while, I had resorted to counting cars in the morning. It was quite hard, since the morning was usually littered with squeals, grunts and general crude complaints in the line of traffic that was headed towards the side of the city across the harbour.

Gradually, the blockage had somehow cleared. I never knew how that came to be, even though traffic had been blocking and clearing every morning since the beginning of my life.

Perhaps that was the ineffable nature of humans.

The air was warmer now, with the sun casting its amiable rays on my northern side.

As I was continuing about, giving ritual praise to Mother Nature and speaking ill of parasites digging at her pores, I sensed a jolt at my feet.

All morning, I had forgotten about him.

He was still alive, a part of me jested.

As I had done it on a daily basis for quite some time now, I abandoned my ritual and attended to the dispute downstairs.

Apparently, he had come into contact with a law enforcer.

I knew human authority when I sensed one, and this one was no different.

Judging by the pheromones they were giving off, I could tell that he was in trouble.

And he was going so well too.

It was a shame that I didn’t get to know him any better.

I knew he was an exception, like a rose among a sea of weeds.

There was no way he could leave this vicinity. After all, this was my territory.

*LOLSPAMMER* Well, I want to say this is wonderfully delicious to read out loud. :3

I love this narrator's thoughts, the way s/he (he, I suspect) is musing and how we can just wander through the autumn leaves (I love the fact you call the season 'autumn' too! w00t!).

I'm wondering what this narrator is. What, as opposed to who... I keep thinking of a tree, for some reason... but that kind of went out the window when s/he mentioned 'downstairs'... in a building, I suspect, so not a tree, but a person. Or a deity of some kind... hmm. :3

So this person (or tree? xD) has found her/himself a curiosity.

I wished for more description on this curiousity, but mystery is good for these things. Little details at a time.

I sense the cracking of man wood as I let one of my thicker, stockier branches fall on the enforcer’s head.

Surely, he should be covered in animal sap by now. I can certainly smell some.

I, on the other hand, am quite unharmed. The branch was getting old (and a bit mouldy) anyway; it would surely be gone by the time winter came.

A few more of the humans had arrived now to see the sappy scene.

I hope I hadn’t killed the enforcer, for that would’ve surely placed “murderous capabilities for personal, but overall needless gain” among the list of things that was already tearing me apart.

Oh, the thought!

Fortunately for I, the enforcer does not seem to be quite harmed, just quite annoyed.

I hear a verbal assault by the enforcer, followed by a death threat, but overall, he is quite capable of composing himself, so I mustn’t have done much harm to his psyche.

A siren wails, I notice; a terrible siren all the more to tell the world that another human had become incapacitated in a failure of some sort. More or less, this time it was my failure - my failure to resist an urge - but that would imply that I am human.

I am not supposed to fail.

If my only purpose is to exist, how can I fail?

Even so, I cannot look past the fact that I had just attempted murder on a human being.

If it is true that the grass gossips, my remaining acquaintances would surely hear of the news by now. I hope they can take it that it was an accident.

Even so, the regret overwhelms me, and if I am rejected any further by this, it would seem that I have no choice but to pursue humanity.

A rebellious fire was now burning inside me, and a chance to extinguish it seemed unlikely. This fire would eventually consume and scar my soul, surely.

During my meditative existence (if it could be called as such), I am not supposed to become fearful of anything.

But this time, I have, and it feels terrible.

It has been a tedious morning, and thankfully, the siren has wailed off and the crowd is beginning to dissipate, leaving me quite alone with the human I was so willing to protect.

I sense the piercing rays of his vision.

It is a funny thing.

I don’t know what it is, or what it feels like to use vision. I don’t know what light is, but I don’t know if this is what they call ‘black’ either.

What is vision?

I can feel it on my skin, but that is only because I can sense his orientation via another method that I am not entirely sure how it works.

But it makes me feel vulnerable, as if he knows something about me.

The pheromones he releases become quite intangible. I cannot read his mind.

It triggers a new dilemma.

On a day-to-day basis, our interaction with humans was merely a co-existence and few of us came with direct, purposeful contact with them (with the exception of the more pompous ones who pride themselves as being “beaut’s”).

My interaction with humans was merely as an entertained witness to their antics.

I had only grown needlessly attached to this human.

Nothing more.

But it seems that he is returning the affection.

I cannot take it, not from him.

I am coming to a point where I am only blurting out random thoughts.

Surely, this must not continue.

I severely need this rest that my anatomy denies.

But he continues to examine me.

I become increasingly nervous as he approaches. He doesn’t seem to do so with much vigour, but nor does he approach with hesitation- but that was beside the point; he was coming for me.

I skim through my options, but none of them could fend off a human being.

I could drop another branch, but that would be point-defeating, not to mention that I had had enough of human sap today.

If I did drop another branch, the humans would surely begin to question my murderous capabilities. To think if I did kill him and the law enforcer, my standing here would surely be annulled and my body turned into something constructive.

He approaches, now stepping on my foot. He pats my skin. Not many have done that before, and for some reason, it makes me feel a bit less vulnerable.

His vision illuminates my fingers, my arms, where one of them had just snapped, and he seems quite delighted, for some reason.

Perhaps I am just reading his pheromones wrong.

But indeed, he is exceptionally observant.

He pretends to swing on my arms for a while, but doesn’t seem to want to climb them, thankfully. He’s quite heavy, but he seems nimble enough.

He views me from all different angles. Perhaps he is trying to guess my age.

He’ll need to cut me open to know my exact age.

He eventually disembarks, after what seems like an eternity to me.

He leaves, to the direction where the cars are headed to, and suddenly, I feel as though eternity wasn’t enough...

Perhaps it was worth it – a climactic quivering deep within the recesses of my perceptions, only to end in a bemusing remark that doesn’t quite release the tension built up by all that shaking.

I don’t know. It is an odd feeling – one that leaves me wondering whether I am satisfied or not.

What is the worth of being placed into the eyes of the human? If there is any, I cannot perceive it, so it must be intangible.

But what if there is no worth? What if it has negative worth? They’ll tell me that I am only deluded, like the flowers that live a life beyond the needs of pollination, and that he’s probably after my potential in being a suitable building material. It’s all they ever talk of humans: ignorant, idiotic, selfish and arrogant – I grow tired of all these generalisations, despite how much truth is apparent in them.

But maybe it is a bad thing that my existence has been perceived by humans (or at least, a human).

I’m not comfortable in being too submerged in human ideals (though these may just stem from myself being submerged in anti-human ideals). All this time, all curiosity I hold in my subconsciousness is kept closed up as a result of the ideals my peers hold. It’s frustrating, to be constantly bombarded by side comments that denounce any possibility of humans being charitable in their sentience and physical ability.

But it’s odd. Even the most charitable humans can be ignorant.

There was once a patch of grass, quite bare, and a Planet Ark volunteer decided that it would be lovely if a tree would be planted there.

Unbeknownst to this charitable young volunteer (who also seemed to have crude gloss soaked into her hair), this piece of ground was actually part of a bridge that spanned roughly eight lanes over an expressway which formed an integral part in keeping the south of the city in touch with the north of the city and vice versa.

No one seems to have noticed my existence atop a bridge as being peculiar or, at the very least, mildly fascinating. For the decades I have grown here, no one seems to have noticed the inherent danger of planting a tree on a bridge (however grassy it is).

I anticipate the day when my feet eventually tear this bridge apart. It gives me some form of purpose, at least, as if my life has been preparing myself for this phenomenal event.

I wonder if I would still be alive by then. I’d certainly be famous.

I wonder if he knew; if he found it peculiar.

He’s like one of the things I find peculiar. Being what I am, I find many things peculiar, simply because I have a limited perception of what happens beyond my grasp, so I can only surmise conclusions to these peculiarities by means of gossip and rumour.

Certainly the most talked about of subjects is what humans call the “State Library”. Much knowledge I have of that building comes from what I’ve heard from the bushes inconsiderately planted there beneath its sandstone walls.

There isn’t much to ponder about it though, actually.

If anything, the Library seems more like a mausoleum rather than a compilation of histories and recorded works that humans place in such high regard. Their values are worth appreciating; as wise as we may become, we are far from the ability to be able to record what we think. Such a detachment from the physical plane has its shortcomings, and that is one of them.

Humans value information, inventing new forms of storage for information (rather than doing something more constructive, like promoting awareness of dos and don’ts of planting trees), since the library in a physical sense has become quite outdated in that respect. But we can’t comprehend anything beyond a physical library. That would strictly demand animalistic senses (and probably a veritable amount of human intelligence), even if we do have the mind capacity to digest whatever might be a library, only existing in the astral plane.

What really bothers everyone though is that this library (as well as all physical libraries in the world) contains the processed bodies of many before our time. I was quite worried in my youth that they had become possessed by human’s contentious ideologies when I first knew of the contents of the Library.

Even now, I could still feel an eerie tingling emanating from the building’s innards.

Around the direction of the northwest lies another building. It is actually quite far away, but I’ve been intrigued by it nonetheless. It lies adjacent to a large garden where a few exotic friends I know of dwell, so there are quite a few interpretations as to what it might be used for.

It is a lowly building, but there are a number of eerie sounds that derive from within. Most of the sound follows a set pattern, but otherwise, there are very few theories as to what it might contain. Processed bodies are certainly being sent in there, but most of them don’t linger for long before being taken back out again. Unfortunately, the distance is a problem, and I may never get a primary encounter of the building itself. Instead I’d have to rely on sketchy information passed on by those who do get a primary encounter.

There’s what they call a ‘gallery’, somewhere - essentially the same building as the Library, even in terms of distance away from me, but it seems to house something else that is equally as odd as the building with the strange sounds. I, personally, don’t have a clue as to what it might contain, and neither does anyone else.

There are always things worth pondering about, but the lack of clues takes away so much fun out of it that it becomes no more than stupid baseless speculation.

Such a curse it is to do nothing but ponder.

As straight and sane it helps keep my mind, pondering does nothing but tempt.

Already, I have thought of so many things worth pondering about to sustain me for the next fifteen years or so. If I had the ability to physically explore these fifteen years-worth of peculiarities, it would only take me a tiny fraction of that amount of time, I reckon.

But if I was able to escape my stationariness, then maybe I’d have much more than fifteen years-worth of peculiarities. The Earth I know is quite big, totally beyond what I can perceive, and it’s full of marvel and intrigue based upon what I know from far-travelled stories.

But how much of it has been tainted by humanity? They have intruded and plundered every corner of the Earth and I have no idea of what has and has not been retained by their invasion. Perhaps there are corners that have yet to know what harm humanity may befall upon them. Perhaps there aren’t. I am, decidedly, neither pessimistic nor optimistic, but if I could prove or disprove the existence of such a sanctuary, I would wager that I would swing the respective way.

In wondering about all these possibilities of a broad physical perception, it pains me to go back to the ‘merits’ of pondering.

It apparently gives us the reputation of being elderly, wise creatures, consulted by organisms far and wide for age-old wisdom derived from all this thinking. Reverence is not a bad reward, but surely, there is so much more to life than simply pondering baselessly for all of eternity as we know it?

It’s moments of thought like these that I would rather live ignorant, idiotic, selfish and arrogant lifestyles than spend eternity pondering on what has already been pondered upon centuries before.

But foolishly hoping, beyond reason and logic, that a greater force could grant me such abilities is strictly against the laws of nature (and the laws of nature could not be broken, even though my sleeping in its essence is quite blasphemous in that respect) and, admittedly, quite embarrassing.

I wonder if I would be punished for merely holding these ideas and desires.

What goes around comes around, and I don’t think my stationary existence renders me exempt from karma. She may be fair, but grudgingly, I think that fairness can only go so far when it starts to become inflexible. Her mercilessness renders her ‘less fair’ in that respect.

Surely, I will be punished for these heinous crimes, but with what?

Burning would be a horrible prospect – and probably quite a likely one. I don’t think I can excuse myself from it.

There are biological factors, like infections and pests, and miscellaneous things like soil pollution.

Maybe a drought would kill me. This country was already at its knees where water supply was concerned. I’d certainly be in one of the lower tiers as far as water usage priority went.

Termites would be unbearable to say the least. I’ve heard from others (before they’re inevitable demise) who likened the sensation to being tickled to death. It’s only at these times when you will both thank and curse the little sensitivities of touch that are granted.

Fortunately, I doubt termites would be a plausible method. They certainly would not be able to build a nest with a concrete base so close to the surface of the ground.

And on that note, perhaps a more plausible punishment may come in the form of the bridge. But if it were my final downfall, then by the logic of karma, I would’ve been punished the day I was planted here by the Planet Ark volunteer.

Now I think I might say firstly, there was a little bit of a repetition in the sentence structure that actually made the chapter a bit... repetitive. In a not so good way. I noticed it about here:

If anything, the Library seemed to be a mausoleum rather than a compilation of histories and recorded works.

I was quite scared in my youth that the papers there were possessed, brought to life by mankind’s devious ideologies.

Even now, I could still feel the eerie tingling that emanates from the innards of that Library.

They are probably still suffering.

Around the direction of the northwest lies another building. It is actually quite far away, but I’ve been intrigued by it nonetheless. It lies adjacent to the Botanical Gardens, so there are quite a few interpretations.

It is a lowly building, but there are a number of eerie sounds that derive from within. I sure hope that it is not as genocidal as the Library’s purpose seems to be.

^ Bolded parts.

The rhythm somehow felt like it just went around and around. My only suggestion for it could be to actually add more description and beef it out a little bit more, or move the words in the sentence around for more variety.

Small nit pick.

Moving along...

This Planet Ark twit planted this poor tree on a bridge? >____> Seriously, was she high? ... How old is this tree, anyway? I was also a little puzzled by the bridge; at first I thought it must've been a very, very broad walking bridge. But then I thought it must be a road - but then I realised if it was actually a road, the tree may have been pulled up because its roots would break up the asphalt. Then the tree was talking about how its roots might split the bridge, so I got confused again. v.v;

Now aside from that... a creepy library... interested me. I wonderered a little how it knew what it was and the sort... mostly because I'm not entirely sure our tree here would be able to comprehend English. Or if it did, how it came to learn what a library was. More filling in, perhaps.

Finally, I thought the transitions were not made particularly clear. There lacked a distinct shift that the reader could recognise quickly.

And now here are my favourite lines:

Unbeknownst to this charitable young woman (who also seemed to have crude gloss soaked into her hair)

This country was already at its knees where water supply was concerned. I’d certainly be in one of the lower tiers as far as water usage priority went.

I know what you mean....I think, but I'm not entirely sure how to fix it (even if I somehow did, I wouldn't be able to avoid any other future repititiveness). More description is a good call, since I was afraid that I was putting too much description in (since...well, trees aren't supposed to have that good of a perception of their surroundings).

I've actually based what Mr. Tree could sense here from "The Day of the Triffids", you know, how the Triffids are able to perceive sound (and communicate via sound primitively), except I've also made the trees being able to communicate via a very dodgy and overall not very reliable form of telepathy (which is why Mr. Tree doesn't really know a lot about human thingamabobs).

Moving along...

This Planet Ark twit planted this poor tree on a bridge? >____> Seriously, was she high? ... How old is this tree, anyway? I was also a little puzzled by the bridge; at first I thought it must've been a very, very broad walking bridge. But then I thought it must be a road - but then I realised if it was actually a road, the tree may have been pulled up because its roots would break up the asphalt. Then the tree was talking about how its roots might split the bridge, so I got confused again. v.v;

She was goin' green :D

Now aside from that... a creepy library... interested me. I wonderered a little how it knew what it was and the sort... mostly because I'm not entirely sure our tree here would be able to comprehend English. Or if it did, how it came to learn what a library was. More filling in, perhaps.

He can understand thoughts, from humans (all plants can, assumably). So when he refers to 'car', he refers to a contraption that humans use to travel and releases toxic fumes into the air while doing that...but I think that's a bad example.

So think 'The Chrysalids' (if you've read it; it's also by John Wyndham), where the main characters can communicate via 'thought-shapes' which convey ideas rather than words (which is seen as an inferior form of communication).

So he'd know (from other trees reading the minds of people) what a library was, but not the word 'library'. Mr. Tree would know that the library contained books...made of paper...made out of trees D:

So yeah, don't read books under the shade of a tree :]

Finally, I thought the transitions were not made particularly clear. There lacked a distinct shift that the reader could recognise quickly.

Well in that case, you need to add expression of these senses. That can be what your description is; you talk about how Mr. Tree feels, how these thought forms come into his consciousness. So on.

He certainly recognises touch, if the hug was anything to go by. I imagine touch to be one of the stronger senses, considering he lacks... well, basically anything else except that sixth sense, which must not be terribly 'advanced', if trees haven't figured out how to communicate with people.

So basically, Mr. Tree knows that the image of a book means the image of b-o-o-k, B-O-O-K, B-o-o-k, letters individually, and can strap together meaning in that fashion? *Nod*

Finally, a set of books I can say I have read. D: You don't know how many times people tell me about books/movies/TV shows, and I have to admit I've never seen them.

EDIT: I've beefed up the problem produce with 57&#37; more content and 62% less water. And the can's now safer to open.

This is far from a chapter, but I named it so anyway.

Chapter 5 Foreword

There are things in the world that should remain constant. Whilst change is an inevitable factor in the cosmos’ constant restructuring and destroying, there still remain those that should remain rightfully obedient to their ancestors’ wills.

For example, a tree should not become a human, whether in mind, body or spirit.

From the little knowledge our brethren have gained of this awkward species that is the human, they seem to reject this belief that some things should remain constant. While practice of this philosophy (or lack of) has yielded some good, the overall abuse of it has resulted in a greatly unbalanced cosmos eternally tilting towards their favour.

Already, it seems that their infectious hands have found some victim in the form of an already torn organism hanging on the brink of destiny.

A while passed, but I don’t know for how long. I stopped counting cars and doing things in general. I didn’t have any other method of perceiving time, so it became quite frustrating.

The wind was strong I knew; afternoon breezes that escorted the sun away, before welcoming it back the next day.

Frequently, there have been times when my mind drew blank and unawares. Awakening from that dormant state was gradual, even though it was hard to comprehend how there would be a middle-ground between awareness and lying dormant.

This one was different, however.

I awoke with a start, wincing at the wind as if I was ambushed by cold hands. It dazed me for a while before I got a hold of my surroundings.

It felt so...new to me. Everything was familiar, but that same everything had gone through so much weathering that I was suddenly questioning how long I had been in a stupor.

I felt the empty clutch of my branches.

Yes, the wound was still there, where my branch had snapped earlier this morning, but everything else seemed to be ahead of my late transition.

I took a grasp at the cars beneath.

Peak hour - and they overwhelmed me with their sheer number.

Shaken, I fell.

Karma and destiny are intermingled...somehow.

It was either karma or destiny that I was born atop a bridge due to the generous actions of a genial human. They are my parents and my governesses, judging my actions like a cosmic adjudicator.

Karma decides its criminal, while destiny...also decides its criminal.

But they are not the same.

Karma is the result of one’s chosen actions, while destiny is the result regardless of one’s chosen actions.

But they are still intimately engaged to one another.

It is, ultimately, a paradox in my opinion and I’d be a fool to deduce any further.

For now, while the afternoon gives ceremony to evening, I would be better off estimating what karma and destiny have in mind for me.

I live in a poisonous location, where to live is to die and to die is to live.

It’s a slow and tedious process, and all the more, it makes her victim suffer.

But if karma and destiny really were benevolent deities, I might even be able to live for a while after the supposedly earth-shattering event, to absorb my final moments wrapped in chaos and destruction as far as I could feel. If they had at least an ounce of mercy within them, I might even be able to live after the bridge toppled. I could be relocated, perhaps to somewhere less convoluted with urban consolidation.

But she is neutral. It’s all about manipulating karma so that, hopefully, she won’t act against whatever you are trying to achieve. By the same logic, destiny would also be neutral, except that he is more or less directly influenced by karma’s decisions.

But if karma and destiny are neutral, how did I wind up here?

Already, it seems that the fate of the unlucky victims was sealed the moment that my home was decided.

If there were anyone to be amused by this, it would’ve either been karma or destiny. Not the both of them, no. One is subservient to the other, but I can’t figure out whom.

They both have their reasons for putting me here.

Either way, it does not make me feel good.

Perhaps I should just have some rest.

(Again, it has come to my attention that such a frequent need to rest must not be healthy for me)

Every night, the humans would come to celebrate, infecting the surroundings with some pointless yet utterly contagious festivity. You could never know what they were up to, but you could feel their thumping from all over the city – synchronised, perpetual and highly disorienting.

I’m lucky though; I lie on the outskirts of the main portion of the inner city, with an adequate amount of shock-absorbing earth around me – so it leaves me relatively unscathed by the frivolities.

Once or twice every year or so (more than that probably, but it doesn’t occur very often), they would gather by the masses near me to host a giant, concentrated festivity. It shakes at my foundations (somewhat escalating the danger I pose to this bridge) and tears apart every conjured thought I have ever accumulated within my memory. I don’t take long to recuperate, but the process is dauntingly difficult and preys on my paranoia of forgetting something important.

But tonight is merely routine, never so much severe as to cause me any lasting trouble. There were digressers, who were either outcasts or intoxicated, but they never payed me much attention. I’d do the same, unless they started spewing their acidic bodily fluids all over my trunk. Granted it was a nutritious supplement, but no one likes to have acid hurled onto their façade and then to be told that it was for their own good.

That happened to me a few nights ago. An intoxicated human had overturned the contents of his stomach and flung it over my trunk. It eventually dried up on my trunk after he left, all the more defeating the argument that it was a nutritious supplement. The stench was unimaginably fetid, worsening with the heat of summer. It wasn’t until the afternoon the next day that a bout of rain had washed the vomit off, even though the stench had never really left.

In retrospect, I wonder if that stench was prominent yesterday. I had forgotten about the smell after extended periods of intense philosophical exchanges within my mind, but now that I had brought my mind to it, it was as strong as ever, if not more, numbing my olfactory senses to the extent that I could smell nothing but that patch of vomit.

I wonder if he smelled it.

Figuring it best to ignore it and hope for a rainstorm-borderline-flash-food instead in case I was fortunate enough, I displaced myself upstairs, forcing myself to engage in surrounding matters. It wasn’t much use; the thumping, albeit not quite stentorian, was jumbling up my thoughts like a toss of vines, forcing me to rest without any obligation from my consciousness, except for the notion that trees weren’t supposed to fall asleep.

But I fell for it anyway, probably out of frustration.

My inner biological clock told me that it was well past midnight.

Welcome to the year 2000, I bid, and we’re still here, aren’t we?

Barely, I thought. Just another troupe of seasons come and gone. I knew there would be celebrators everywhere around the world, but I also knew that there’d be those who would later regret their do-it-before-the-world-ends actions– especially the two humans who were now dozing carelessly against my adolescent trunk. Male and female – two denominations that applied no meaning to me or my brethren – and here they were, showing me just what it meant to be male or female in the animal kingdom, exchanging waves upon waves of hot-blooded, sappy passion.

I never really understood why evolution had decreed to make the reproduction process of its advanced species much more complicated and demanding. Maybe it was a direct rebellious act against nature – a rebellion that would ultimately culminate in what must be the most passionate creatures ever to grace the Earth…before subsequently having them destroy it as it hops onto another stepping stone. Someday, they’d find themselves trapped with no other stones to make their way across the ocean. Naturally, that would be destiny’s way of shoving them away from dominance. But no – they’d build bridges, swim if they dare, or just wait for their stepping stone to slowly sink into the tragic abyss of an apocalypse in a stubborn, self-cannibalising flurry.

And to prevent that, what more but to feast on their passion to prevent such a tragedy? After all, nothing separates a snippet of grass from the other – they’re just parts that form a whole that no one would ever have any passionate thought for.

It could be said that humans are just like those blades of grass, but already, I could sense some degree of individualism within that field, which is a good thing; it is, after all, the human as a super-organism that we see as most frightening. It’s not everyday that one can stumble across a human as far removed from the greater good as can be. They’re not too hard to find (mainly because they stand out so much), but it takes a great deal of empathy to realise how valuable they can be to the future of the world.

I woke up with a start. Flinching in discomfort, I went downstairs to the irritant. I could feel the grasses around me retreating and panicking, withholding their curiosity yet dangerously tempted to join the excitement. I knew was it was; a fight – something that wasn’t so uncommon every now and then in the guise of a cool evening.

I tuned myself into the action – four or five people, growling and shoving as fists of robust wood collided with the frames of others, only to return the favour in an exhaustive cycle of punishing revenge.

And something caught my senses – a sparkle of familiarity.

I knew what it was, I think.

And then there was excitement – powered by a deep, stronger-than-ever thumping within.

Oh yes, there was excitement.

I’ve found my quarry, and this time – yes I knew it would be this time – there would be no sidetracking myself.

I tried to pinpoint his exact location, but it was impossible. It was already hard to judge how many there were and how many of them were actively involved in the brawl, but I couldn’t trace that spark to a specific moving object.

One of them was flung onto my trunk. I winced, but not long before I scrambled in an excited, uncoordinated flury to examine the human.

It was one of those times when you would rely on instinct for the sake of instinct in an attempt to prove yourself correct. Being the guilty conscience, you would try to empathise with someone else (whether that particular someone else existed or not) who was observing each and every one of your actions and insist that what you were doing was absolutely wrong and ill-conceived. This would then in turn be passed back to your active mind and you would lose that spark of instinct that had ignited your promise to make every necessary sacrifice to realise that instinct. Left to carry on with that instinct, in what others and your conscious empathiser would call sheer stubbornness, you’re left with nothing.

But forward.

And then would come the slogans intent on covering up the significance of losing that spark of familiarity and instead push and shove you towards the direction of that lost signal, even when its aftermath – the instinct that had carried you so far ahead in spite of its death – had slowly become a shuddering shadow of a doubt growing larger as your conscience rears into view.

I couldn’t find him.

Doubt was clouding my examinations and eventually, I lost focus on the moving bodies bound in vigorous momentum. Instincts told me to shout – and never in my conception, had I wanted to grab someone’s attention so badly – to tell them to stop, and take my existence into consideration...but I knew it was impossible.

But it was also equally impossible to contain all this rage…I had to release it somehow, and not just in the manner of releasing a pulse of rabid fury that would undoubtedly shock a many of the plants in the surrounding area.

I needed something else…to sustain the spark and the instinct was my top priority and it wasn’t about to become extinguished by the prejudices of elders and their anecdotes.

Another one was flung onto my trunk and the fight continued against it, with the one against my trunk held firmly in the grip of its executioner. The shoving and the cornering was intentional, I realised, as the others were beginning to surround the victim in a circle completed by me.

Their victim was subdued, eventually, tossed up in a shattered, already decomposing heap against my trunk as they began to engage in the capitalisation of their victim. My frustration became no more as the initial thrust of a chaotic brawl became a slow, systematic manipulation of their now-defeated enemy. No more worrying about the sensitive matters of myself; I could sense that this was no ordinary brawl. Their victim wasn’t going to survive.

They were synchronised and rhythmical in their execution, despite their seemingly random strikes on the victim. His frame shattered, bending beyond the constraints of an inflexible body, as the impact of another’s foot burst another structure in his body.

Sometimes they misaimed and hit me instead. It wasn’t painful – if anything, I felt more painful drinking (against my will) the sap of their victim that flowed to the thirst of my roots.

He was still moving – more so reacting to his attackers in an unstable way – but most of it felt like profuse twitching.

‘…don’t…please…stop…’

Useless, we all knew, but nonetheless, what more could a desperate man hope for?

‘…don’t…kick the…tree…’

Again, no use – a laughable matter, in fact – and so much that even I could feel the attackers’ increased elatedness.

But what of his intentions of trying to protect me? I generalised as much that those who protected plants usually ended up as outcasts to human society. But this was no sanctuary. The damsels in distress were usually ones who were virgins to the serrated, churning blade of human greed. I certainly was no damsel. But even so, those who knew their dendrology would’ve known that being kicked was nothing compared to being hacked to shreds by sheer metal. Unless he was an idiot – or a stubborn law enforcer – there was no logic attached to his plea.

I could safely assume that he wasn’t one of the volunteers of Planet Ark…

!

The blood was saturating my roots…so much that by the time I had realised who he was, it had ignited every corner of my mind like a spark dropped onto a pool of oil.

I had sworn to commit myself to his safeguard, and here I was in trouble of finding something suitable to protect him with. The old drop-a-branch-on-their-head trick seemed like the most obvious and practical choice, seeing as I had a large – albeit healthy – one dangling over the attackers’ heads.

But what if I missed? Physical precision was something that no one could really perceive very well, so it was a matter of luck of whether the branch would hit or not.

Well…I had no choice.

One of the attackers, in response to his victim’s pleas, kicked me squarely in the middle.

Well it seems that I've fallen behind somewhat. Let me apologise and make amends.

So far, your writing is tactful, and works very well to suggest an entity who is quite old. If a little absentminded. I find his musing very interesting, at any rate. Particularly this issue regarding karma and destiny. Rather conflicting philosophies. As far as I understand it, however, karma is what comes back to you following an action (bad actions will bring bad actions upon you, and such like), now given that, then you look at destiny, that is the state were you are condemned to an inevidable condition regardless of your actions. I rather think destiny is an ominous entity because hey, regardless of what you want to do/be, you will be this because I said so, kaithxbai! Karma just says, "well you can do this... but you reap what you sow". So in that sense, Mr. Tree, I think you might be a little incorrect.

Although is it possible that regardless of what you do, good or bad and regardless of the consequences of those actions, you will still end up in the same place destiny intended? But then, what is destiny? How do you know that you've reached it?

... Anyhoo, I think I digress.

I'm a little curious about Mr. Tree's ability to conciously go 'upstairs' and 'downstairs'. This makes me think that perhaps his consciousness has a central point, which can be shifted anywhere in the tree, at will. The next thing that made me go "wait a minute..." was his sense of smell. Perhaps his sense of smell is all over his body, rather than centralised like it is in humans.

Which brings me to this:

Male and female – two denominations that applied no meaning to me or my brethren – and here they were, showing me just what it meant to be male or female in the animal kingdom, exchanging waves upon waves of hot-blooded, sappy passion.

HAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAA! Poor, poor thing. xDDDD No hiding from that little interruption. Ewww... he should've dropped a branch on them. xD

Moving right along, now...

... to this poor human being. Why is he so desperate to try and stop them from hurting this tree? Does he know that Mr. Tree is sentient? I suspect so. Why is he in trouble with these thugs? That interests me very much.

Timing it just about right, I retaliated.

Wow. Oh wow. I pity the sod who gets clocked. That's a one hit KO right there, that is. xD I have faith in Mr. Tree's judgement, but I do hope that he does hit the right guy.

The last thing is... there has been small hints of the trees communicating with each other in some way; hints of knowledge being collected over the ages. Now I wonder, is there a culture among trees? A basic form, perhaps, but something... hmmm...

Oh well, in any case; very good work. I eagerly await the next chapter.